


Snowstorm

by whichclothes



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-17
Updated: 2010-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:36:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes





	Snowstorm

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[hc_bingo](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/hc_bingo), [snowed in](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/snowed%20in), [spike/lindsey](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike%2Flindsey), [spike/wesley](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike%2Fwesley)  
  
  
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**Title:** Snowstorm  
 **Chapter** : 1 of 1   
 **Pairing:**  Spike/Wes/Lindsey   
 **Rating:**  R  
 **Disclaimer:**  I'm not Joss  
 **Summ** **ary:**  Set during AtS S5. Spike, Wes, and Lindsey get stuck in a mountain cabin. From the [](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/profile)[**hc_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/)  prompt "cuddling for warmth/snowed in."  
 **A/N:**   Many thanks to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for her beta work.

 _  
**Snowstorm (1/1)**   
_

**  
Snowstorm  
**

 

“Whose sodding idea was this?”

“It was mine, Spike, and it was necessary, but you didn’t have to come.”

Spike scowled at Wesley and then lit another cigarette. Wes didn’t take his eyes off the road long enough to scowl back, but he cracked the window a bit to let the smoke out.

“Oi! ‘S bloody cold, Percy.”

“Yes. It’s bloody cold and it’s snowing and I don’t truly wish to let the heat escape, but I also don’t wish to be…asphyxiated.”

“Not like you’ll live long enough to die of lung cancer,” Spike muttered, but he stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray and pulled his duster more tightly about himself. Which he knew was pointless—no body heat to keep in—but it somehow felt better.

“C’mon, man. Close it,” came a complaining voice from the back seat. Both Spike and Wesley ignored him, but after a moment Wesley began to shiver and so he pressed the button to shut the window. Spike sighed and, for possibly the twentieth time, checked to make sure the heater was set as high as it would go. It was. At least his arse was comfortable—the Escalade had seat warmers.

“It’s fucking freezing back here and I gotta piss.”

Wesley made evil eyes at the rear view mirror. “The journey would be considerably more pleasant if the two of you would stop complaining.”

“Pleasant?” Spike snorted. “This isn’t a holiday. Vampires don’t take holidays and if we did, it wouldn’t be to help a stick-up-the-arse ex-Watcher and Tex defuse a mystical time bomb.”

“Hey, I’m kinda having fun. Even freezing my ass off is better than being stuck in that cell. But Christ, couldn’t you at least turn on the radio?”

That was actually a good idea, although Spike didn’t say so. But when he fiddled with the radio buttons he got nothing but static. Not a big surprise, given their altitude and distance from civilization, but still disappointing. So Lindsey started humming instead. He had a nice voice, although of course Spike didn’t say that either. But he also didn’t complain and neither, he noticed, did Wes.

The SUV rolled along for a time, and even with his demon eyes, all Spike could see outside were snowflakes falling in front of the headlights and beyond that, blackness. “Reminds me of this one time—not long before the Great War, I reckon—when we were traveling from Martigny to Aosta. Was a bloody stupid time of year to do it, but Dru said she fancied following Napoleon’s route into Italy, and once she got a notion in her head…. Anyhow, it began to blizzard, and we ended up spending over a week there, burying ourselves in snowdrifts by day and eating monks by night. And monks…that was always more Angelus’s taste, not mine. Now, me—”

“Thank you for the fascinating travelogue, Spike,” Wesley said drily. “But I am trying to find our turn, and if you keep prattling—”

“Not prattling,” Spike growled, but then he shut his mouth tightly. He turned his head to look at Lindsey, in case Lindsey was going to laugh, but the lawyer only grinned and shrugged.

The SUV slowed to a crawl and then, swearing softly under his breath, Wesley turned. This road was bumpy, likely just dirt or gravel and of course unplowed, and the vehicle jostled uncomfortably. Now and then Spike could see just a flash of trees through the blowing snow. It was a bit spooky, actually, although he couldn’t fully explain why.

“You know, the Donner party got stuck not far from here,” Lindsey said cheerfully. “And that reminds me—I’m hungry. We got anything to eat?”

“ _I_ do,” Spike replied, smiling wickedly and allowing his eyes to flash yellow for a moment. But Lindsey didn’t even have the grace to look frightened.

Wes just kept driving, going slower and slower until Spike wondered if they were moving at all. He could see the man’s white knuckles as he gripped the steering wheel, and noted his tightly-set jaw. Four-wheel drive or not, the SUV swerved and thudded and yawed, and the snow came down thicker until it was a nearly impenetrable curtain of white, and even Lindsey finally shut his gob.

Wes squinted at the windscreen. “Look! I believe—”

But then there was an especially large jolt and the sickening sound of crunching metal. Spike flew forward, crashing headfirst into the glass, and then everything went black.

 

***

Someone was holding him down, restraining him, and Spike instinctively bucked and snarled.

“Stay still!” someone yelled.

Dimly, Spike recognized the voice and the scents that accompanied it, and even recognized the warm, heavy weight on his chest. He peeled open his eyes to discover Lindsey perched on top of him, pinning Spike’s arms in place with surprising strength, as Wesley bent over Spike’s face, poking at him.

“Oi! Wha—”

“Don’t move!” Wes snapped. His hand moved away from Spike’s head, and Spike could see then that Wes was holding a pair of tweezers, and that the tweezers were pinching a chunk of bloody glass.

“Where?” Spike tried to look about, but Wes grabbed Spike’s chin and moved his head back into place.

“We’re inside the cabin we were searching for, and I am removing a good portion of the windscreen from your forehead.”

“Yeah,” Lindsey chuckled from his perch atop Spike. “Vamps who ignore the seatbelt law still gotta obey the laws of physics.”

Spike was still trying to clear his aching head. “We crashed?” he asked.

“Wes’s car got up close and personal with a boulder.”

“Visibility was very poor,” Wes said defensively, prying another piece of debris out of Spike’s skin. “And fortunately we had reached our destination.”

“But the Caddy’s dust and we can’t get any cell phone reception,” Lindsey added, strangely cheerful. “So we’re good and stuck until the storm blows over.”

Spike tried to blink a trickle of blood out of his eye, and Wes wiped his brow with a clean bit of cloth. He was surprisingly tender about it. Spike asked, “Did you disarm the…the whatsit?”

Wes nodded. “The temporal anomaly generator, yes. California is no longer in danger of being thrust into the Pleistocene and living side-by-side with wooly mammoths. At least not this week. There shall be some extremely disappointed Megyornoi demons, I should think.”

“So the cowboy here really did have the proper codes.”

“Yes, which he could have provided in Los Angeles instead of insisting on accompanying me.”

Lindsey smiled and wiggled a bit. “Yeah, but then I’d still be stuck in the basement at W&H instead of camping in a winter wonderland.”

“You can get off me now,” Spike said. “I’m not thrashing about any longer.”

Lindsey leered slightly and then dismounted.

It took Wes another fifteen minutes or so to finish his doctoring duties. His work was clinical and efficient, yet gentle. When he finally stood back Spike cautiously sat up, groaning at the pain in his head, and looked around.

The cabin was small, perhaps ten feet square, with windowless walls made of rough logs. The single room contained a slightly raised wooden platform on which Spike was seated; a stone fireplace where Lindsey was now poking at a roaring fire; an unpainted, rickety-looking chest of drawers; and a small square table with two chairs. A metal and plastic contraption the size and shape of a briefcase was on top of the table. It had a few wires sticking out, and Spike reckoned that it was the device they’d come to deactivate.

“How do you feel?” Wes asked as if he truly cared.

“Bit sore. Dizzy. Fractured my skull, I expect.”

“You’ll need some blood in order to mend.”

“I’ve a few pints in my bag.” Along with his other necessities.

“It’s still in the SUV. Lindsey, go fetch it.”

Lindsey turned around from the fireplace and frowned. “Who says I gotta be the guy who goes outside in the blizzard?”

Wes’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve destroyed the generator; your usefulness to me has ended. You can be cooperative or else I can…remove you. Your choice.”

“Remove me? You and what army, asshole?”

Wes sighed dramatically and muttered a few words in what Spike was fairly certain was Sanskrit. Lindsey yelped and went flying across the room, crashing heavily into the wall and then sliding down onto his arse. He looked up at Wes with a dazed expression, but Wes just continued tucking his first aid supplies into a large red box. “What the _hell_?” Lindsey said.

“My army. Now, Spike’s bag?”

Lindsey climbed slowly and painfully to his feet and rubbed at his back. He stomped over to the door and opened it, letting in a gust of frigid air. The door slammed as he left.

“That was a bit of fancy mojo, Watcher.”

Wes shrugged and placed the first aid box under the table. “I’ve picked up a thing or two lately. It comes in useful now and then.”

Spike nodded, which made his head hurt, and repositioned himself so his back was against the wall. “How long do you reckon we’ll be stuck here?”

“I’ve no idea. The storm wasn’t forecasted to hit for another day and I don’t know how long it’s meant to last. It could be hours or it could be days.”

“Days? You didn’t bring any supplies, any food….”

“There’s a thermal blanket in my first aid kit, and there are some blankets in that drawer.” He pointed. “Also an iron pot and several dozen tins of meat and vegetables. Lindsey and I should be able to survive for some time if necessary. But you…. How much blood did you bring?”

“Only a few packets. Won’t starve, though. I can go ages without feeding if I have to.”

Wes got a strange look in his eyes. “I’ve seen what happens to a vampire if he goes without feeding for too long.”

“Don’t worry—I won’t be noshing on you in your sleep.”

“Well, I rather expect you’d eat Lindsey first.” Wes almost smiled as he said that.

Spike leered back at him. “Oh, I don’t know. You look mighty tasty yourself.”

Wes actually blushed at that and began to reply, but then the door burst open and Lindsey blew in carrying Spike’s black duffel. He shut the door and let the bag drop to the floor, then shook the snow out of his shaggy hair. “What the fuck you got in there anyway, Spike? Rocks?”

Spike tried to stand but promptly fell back onto his arse. Wes shook his head. “Stay there, Spike.” He unzipped the bag and began to look through it. After a moment he turned to stare incredulously at Spike. “There’s nothing in here but whiskey and cigarettes!”

“And blood. Ought to be some packets there somewhere.”

Wesley rummaged around a few seconds more before pulling out some plastic containers. “They’re frozen,” he said, squishing them slightly. “I can defrost them for you if you like.”

“Ta.”

Wes held the packets near the fire and, after a short time, brought them over. He watched curiously as Spike vamped out and tore into one, then gulped down the melted but chilly contents. Within minutes, Spike had finished off all four packets and could feel the shattered bone in his head begin to mend. Meanwhile, Lindsey plopped down in a chair with one of Spike’s whiskey bottles in front of him.

“Oi!” Spike protested, still not quite feeling up to moving.

“C’mon. You’ve got, like, five more. Share.”

Spike frowned but didn’t have the energy to argue. “Bring me one as well, at least.”

They settled in quietly after that. Wesley heated up the contents of a few cans and dished them out for himself and Lindsey. The two of them ate and passed the bottle back and forth while Spike sipped at his own. Outside, the storm blew and raged, but the little cabin was cozy enough. Spike was rather pleased, in fact, with the absence of electric lights, which he generally found harsh and…and soulless.

He must have nodded off. He woke up a bit as Wes placed something soft under his head—“It’s only a towel I found in the drawer, but that has to be better than bare planks”—and quickly fell back into sleep.

 

***

 

When Spike finally opened his eyes again, he thought for a moment that perhaps he was still dreaming. Wesley and Lindsey were asleep on the floor in front of the fire, which had nearly gone out. What shocked him, though, was that they were asleep _together_ , huddled in one another’s arms under two or three blankets. He sniffed the air. It smelled of sex.

Honestly, Spike wasn’t especially surprised about Lindsey. Spike’s own experiences taught him that the man wasn’t exactly a paragon of virtue. But _Wes_? Spike would have expected that he’d sooner have ended up shagging Angel—there always had been an awkward…something between them. But of course Peaches was too busy being an enormous prat to do anything about it, or to get a leg over at all, actually. Spike ought to have known: he’d tried to seduce his sire himself, only to get bashed up against the wall for his trouble. And not bashed against the wall in a good way.

So perhaps Wes was a bit hard up, and Lindsey was bloody pretty even if he had the morals of a rattlesnake, and the two of them had, Spike could see now, nearly emptied their bottle of Jack.

Still.

He realized with a start that he was _jealous_ , and not only was that sodding stupid, but he wasn’t even certain who he was jealous of.

“Christ,” he groaned, probably louder than he intended, because the men blinked up at him.

Lindsey flashed an entirely too-smug smile, while Wes bit at his lip for a moment and then shrugged. Neither of them made any effort to disentangle himself from the other.

“How do you feel?” Wes asked.

“Better. Head’s fine. I expect yours might be a bit sore, though.” He gestured toward the empty bottle.

“I’m feeling pretty good, actually,” Lindsey said. “But we got a problem.”

“Only one?” asked Spike.

“That’s the last of our firewood there in those ashes. We could probably burn the furniture but it won’t last long, and it’s still storming.”

He was right—the wind hadn’t died down at all.

Spike sat up and stretched. It was already cold in the cabin. “Can’t you do something, Wes? Now that you’ve mastered the abracadabra and all.”

“I’m afraid not. Fire magics are quite unpredictable and I’m as likely to burn us all to cinders as I am to create a nice little flame. I’ve really only learnt a few things so far.”

“The two of you will freeze to death without a fire.” They just looked at him—obviously that thought had already occurred to them both. Perhaps that was why they’d shagged, and impending doom did tend to stir the libido. “Right then,” Spike said, and he stood. He felt steady now; the blood had done its work. His boots clomped loudly as he strode to the door.

Just before he opened it, Wes sat up, dragging Lindsey with him. “Spike! What are—”

“Going to find some firewood.”

“You can’t mean to go outside!”

“That’s where the trees are, innit?” Spike sighed. “Look, I can’t get hypothermia and I’ve a better sense of direction than you two. Won’t get lost.” Before either of the others could respond, he went outside.

He was nearly blinded by the storm—impossible to guess if it was dawn, dusk, or high noon—and instantly felt as if his skin was frozen solid. He wondered whether he _could_ freeze solid, and if he could, whether bits of him would break off like chunks of ice, or whether he’d simply topple over and lie there until a thaw. Would he still burn if he was frozen when the sun hit him? But as he was pondering these thoughts he was moving, hands out in front of him, searching for fuel.

He found plenty of trees, of course. No shortage of those in a bleeding forest. But they were living trees and wouldn’t burn. What he needed was dead wood, some pine that had been felled by disease or something, and that wasn’t fully buried under drifts of snow.

The first dead tree he found was too sparse, not even worth the effort. But a few minutes later he found a bigger one and, taking care not to impale himself, managed to work it free of the snow and drag it back to the cabin. And wasn’t that loads of laughs, stumbling blindly through a blizzard, dragging a sodding dead tree. It seemed as if it took him hours to get back to the hut, but when he arrived he only dumped the tree outside the door and went back for more.

There was no way for him to measure how long he was out there. Hours, perhaps. It could have been days. The cold became such a part of him he couldn’t imagine ever not being frozen, and his brain shut down until he was hardly more than an automaton. Back and forth. Find, wrestle, carry, dump.

And then there were hands grabbing him and dragging him, and he became dimly aware that someone was shouting his name: “Spike! Enough!”

He was dragged back into the little hut, where a gloriously blazing fire crackled and shone, but his knees gave out and he crumpled to the floor.

“Good Lord! He’s frozen.”

“Fuck. Let’s get him near the fire.”

Then someone was carrying him and setting him down carefully onto a blanket that smelled of smoke and mice and old blood. He tried to protest as more blankets were heaped on top of him, but his mouth wouldn’t work properly. He could still hear the voices and he knew they were talking about him, but they seemed far away, or perhaps long ago. He wasn’t certain which.

“Lindsey, blankets will only make him worse. They’ll insulate him from the heat.”

“Damn it! Then what do you suggest?”

“A hot bath would work.”

“Not exactly a Jacuzzi ‘round here, Wes.”

“Let’s at least get these wet clothes off him.”

The hands were moving him then, tugging at him, stripping off his boots and jeans and duster and t-shirt.

“We shouldn’t have let him stay out for so long,” Wes said.

“No shit. Can he—is this gonna dust him?”

“I don’t know. I’m concerned about tissue damage, and he has no blood to help him mend.”

“Then what are we gonna— Oh.”

Lindsey stopped because just then Wesley lay down beside Spike, pressing his tall, lean, _warm_ body against Spike’s. Spike would have shivered had he been capable, not from the cold but from the feel of the man’s clothing against his bare skin. And then Lindsey—shorter, broader, just as warm—lay down on Spike’s other side and someone pulled the blankets up over them all.

“Jesus. It’s like cuddling with an ice statue,” Lindsey complained, but Spike didn’t care because when he spoke, hot puffs of air brushed against Spike’s neck and face.

They remained like that a very long time. Sometimes one of the men would get up to eat something or to add more wood to the fire or sometimes, Spike thought, to dash outside for a quick piss. But then his companion would return to his spot and Spike would sigh happily, because it felt so bloody good to be sandwiched between two living bodies, listening to their heartbeats and rushing blood.

He eventually thawed enough to be able to move again, but he didn’t much bother because he had nowhere to move to and he was comfortable. Wes produced a spy novel from Christ-knew-where and read it out loud, and Lindsey found an almost-complete deck of cards in the chest of drawers (it was missing the five of spades) and taught them loads of stupid games—like Hearts, and Spite and Malice—and Spike told them tales he knew would embarrass Angel later.

The storm stopped eventually, but then Wes announced that the snow was in enormous drifts and it was still miserably cold, and there was no way either of the humans would make it to civilization on foot. Spike offered to give it a go but they wouldn’t let him, and that was just as well because he wasn’t at all certain he’d have made it anyway as his strength was beginning to fail.

And that’s about when Wesley and Lindsey shed their clothing, too; it was getting a bit ripe by then in any case. But skin on skin was brilliant, and after a bit—and some help from Spike’s remaining whiskey—they began to _feel_ each other, to make their own heat, to move and taste and gasp and writhe and on and in and under and oh, Christ!

“You must be ravenous by now,” Wes whispered in his ear. Spike didn’t answer, but a moment later a wrist was pushed against his mouth.

Spike tried to turn away. “Don’t know if I could stop,” he rasped.

“You will,” Wes said firmly, and brought Lindsey’s arm up against Spike's lips again. Lindsey didn’t protest—in fact, his eyes sparkled hungrily and his teeth were very white amidst his thickening beard.

Spike bit.

Lindsey tasted lovely—thick and rich and spicy, like barbeque, with a hint of bitterness at the back of Spike’s tongue. Spike heard him moan and saw his eyelashes flutter, and it didn’t surprise Spike a bit that the man was getting off on this—he was the type.

Lindsey would have happily allowed Spike to drain him dry, but Wes gently pried Spike off him. Lindsey sank down onto the blankets, panting hard.

“You two can’t give me enough,” Spike said, licking his lips. “Can’t keep me going.”

“We can at least give you a taste now and then,” Wes replied.

And they did. Wes tasted dry like a good wine, but with a surprising depth and palette of flavors, and also with that slight tang of bitterness. Although it was lovely it wasn’t enough, and Spike slowly faded until he was only dimly aware that the whiskey that had rubbed the sharp edges off his hunger was gone, and that they were all filthy. But he knew his companions spoke to him, small nothings meant to keep him grounded a bit longer, and they stroked his arms and chest and kept his curls tucked away from his face, and the fire kept burning, burning, hot and alive, the way he’d burned once.

 

***

 

He heard the door when it crashed open. Felt the instant chill as Wes and Lindsey scrambled to their feet, leaving him within the blankets on the floor. Heard loud voices, yelling, urgent, but couldn’t discern the words.

Couldn’t quite manage to open his eyes.

And he was moving, being carried, and _cold cold cold_ but then warm, and soft. And, he somehow sensed, safe.

 

***

 

The mattress was thick and firm, and the sheets very soft. The room was only dimly lit, but he could see well: muted masculine colors on the walls and bedding—grays and tans—and dark wood furniture and, everywhere, piles of books and papers. The scents of dust and scotch and leather and wool. And sitting beside him, concern on his clean-shaven face, Wesley.

“Could you drink some more now, Spike?”

“Yeah.” His throat felt as if it were lined with sandpaper.

Wes propped Spike’s head and shoulders up on some pillows and held the cup for Spike, whose arms were far too heavy for him to lift. The blood was human—not Wes’s; it tasted slightly chemical, medicinal—and had been warmed; it felt like liquid silk as he swallowed.

“Cheers,” Spike said when the mug was empty.

“I’ll have Lindsey fetch you more in a few moments.”

Spike looked about the room but didn’t see anyone else. “Lindsey?”

“He’s in the kitchen, making pasta I believe. He’s quite a good cook, actually.”

Spike discovered he had enough energy to raise one eyebrow.

Wes gave a small, crooked smile. “I persuaded Angel to allow Mr. McDonald to remain here for now.”

“Where’s here?”

“My flat, of course.”

Spike squinted and tried to clear his head enough to suss out what was going on. Wes reached over and pushed a lock of Spike’s hair out of his face, and Spike discovered himself leaning into the touch of that hand gratefully. Wes stroked Spike’s cheekbone. “It took Angel some time to track us down. I expect you’re disappointed to have missed the expression on his face when he burst in and discovered us…together.”

Wes paused, perhaps so Spike would have a moment to imagine how the pouf had looked. Spike snickered.

“Yes, quite,” Wes said, grinning. “He wanted to take you back to the office, to the firm’s medical facilities, but I thought you might be more comfortable here. He truly was quite concerned, you know. But now we’ve plenty of blood and you’ll be on your feet in no time at all.”

Spike thought about his own flat: that dingy little rat-hole provided by Lindsey when he was pretending to be Doyle. He sighed. Perhaps he could hit Peaches up for an actual salary and find someplace nicer. Homier. More…more like Wes’s place.

“Spike?” Wes said. He was still absently caressing Spike’s face with his fingertips. “I never asked you. Why did you insist on accompanying us on that journey? You don’t strike me as the type to yearn for the great outdoors.”

“I was bored. Needed a holiday from Peaches and the bloody law firm and all that shite. I wanted…. I wanted.”

It wasn’t the most coherent of answers, perhaps because Spike himself wasn’t certain of his motives. But Wes smiled and laid his palm along Spike’s cheek—and who would have suspected that the Watcher was such a tactile person; perhaps he’d been as much starved for touch as had Spike. “Do you still want?” Wes asked.

Suddenly Spike’s throat felt thick and closed again. “Yeah,” he whispered.

“Good. Then you’ll stay here? It’s not a huge flat, but I believe it’s big enough for three.”

“It’d be cozy like?”

“Well, it’s a bit more spacious than that cabin. And considerably warmer. And only a block over we’ve Indian takeaway with quite good curries.”

Spike narrowed his eyes. “Why would you want _me_? You can have Lindsey—he’s a lively shag, yeah?—or…or whoever you want, I expect.”

“I want _you_.”

“Why?”

“Because sometimes you infuriate me like nobody else can. Because you’re beautiful. Because you went out in a snowstorm to gather firewood. Because somehow you’ve managed to make me feel protective of a demon. Because I’m even more foolish than my father believed. Because underneath your…your prickly exterior, I see a good man.”

Spike hadn’t expected any of this. It was if he’d been given a wonderful present, unasked for, unearned. Even his dead heart felt warmed, coddled, wrapped in soft blankets.

“What was that you said about more blood?” Spike said gruffly. “With perhaps some noodles as well?”

Wes smiled broadly, stroked Spike one more time, and left to go fetch their new bedmate a meal.

 

 _  
~~~fin~~~  
_

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
